Lincoln High School - Quill Yearbook (Jersey City, NJ)

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O youthful poet, whither coursed thy thoughts? Didst ponder o'er the earth and man and God? Or man his faults and sins and darkened life Through which in misery he blindly gropes? The jealous hate-torn world and all its vice? Or on the utter hopelessness of life? The joys of life, delusions are they all Or drugs that cloud the mind and blunt the sense To stern reality? Or didst thou wonder whence the Cosmos came And seek the secret of Almighty God? Or God's existence even challenged thou? Perhaps didst think about the soul of men, Of life when it has flowed into the sea? O youth, thine eyes are sad, yet they reflect That thou hast penetrated far beyond The veil that parts this from another world. Thine arms to I-Ieav'n are raised, the only stir Since thou beganst thy fatal vigil long. O youth, thy soul is fleeting through the airg Thy body trembling pleads for its return! Into the night thy soul hath disappeared, Upon the earth in sorrow waits thy fleshg For dead, O noble poet, thou art dead! Ah youth, the favored one whose lot it was To see the Great Unseen, to learn the Unknown! But We, to whom thou never canst return To sing in epic great of what thou sawst, Must through the darkness make our way untold. Fore'er our hearts will seek but ne'er will find What thou, O poet, in thy vigil found. And thus in ignorance we come and go, Our wretched spirits ne'er to find repose. Next morning tribesmen riding toward the north Upon a desert rock their poet saw. His arms were raised to I-Ieav'n in supplianceg His face was calmg his eyes appeared to seeg But lifeless was his frame, so cold and still. In sorrow they his body laid away Beneath Arabia's ever-shifting dunes. Onver Mabadeen. 1 09

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And looked upon this youth, it shrank with fear And drew away unto the western sea. The vulture, flying through the empty sky, In journey made its halt, about to pounce Upon its prey: but in amazement stared Into the poet's blazing eyes entranced- Those eyes undaunted e'en by desert's glare- And thus in terror fluttered fast away. Slow sank the sun into the golden sea And in its trail did leave the fulgent sky. And meanwhile at the feasting camp, amid The dancing and the playing of guitars, Uprose the sheik Mithgal and spake them thus, Where is the poet of this mighty tribe? Perhaps secluded he does meditate. Go forth, O noble Ahmed, 'pon they steed, Go forth and seek upon the desert plains The poet of the tribe of Beni-Sakr, That he may come and in immortal verse Extol the exploits of this famous day. And now the earth by sable night enveiled, Sharp winds begin to blow above the sands. And Ahmed by the icy air benumbed The warmth and comfort of the camp desired, And so abandoned he the useless search And turned again toward scenes of revelry. The poet still in thought remained unmoved, Unmind-ful of the raging elements, And motionless he sat defying all, just as the Sphinx in Egypt's desert sits And coldly looks into measured space, To combat calling Time and Universe. Through whirling sands did strike his pallid face. He did not move. The icy wind in vain Did try to kill the raging fire within. Up toward the starry heavens gazed his eyes, Viewed he the sparkling orbs? He looked beyond Into the dark abyss of nothingness That separates the starry worlds . . . 108

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Alias Santa Claus Perhaps parents feel that it is their duty to impress upon their children belief in such mythical figures as Santa Claus and the Easter Rabbit. How- ever, it is my firm conviction that they should not try to continue such fiction after the child has passed the age of ready credulity. Otherwise, dis- illusionment is apt to come to the child with a sudden shock, destroying temporarily his faith in the human race in general, and parents in particular. At least that is what happened in my particular case. Ever since I could remember, I had believe in the existence of a Santa Claus. And so, when I was told that I might accompany my mother on one of those mysterious shopping trips from which we always returned laden with enticing bundles, and that I should actually see Santa, speak to him, perhaps sit on his knee, I could think of nothing else. My mind was utterly unprepared for the enlightenment which was to come. I walked out of the door that morning as happy as I could be. In! fifteen minutes my peace of mind was completely upset. We had passed one Santa Claus after another-seven in all-who were dressed exactly alike and who were not at all as I had pictured him. It was the number of them that amazed me. I had never entertained the idea that there might be more than one Santa Claus. When I gathered courage to ask for an explanation of this-my mother ignored completely this phenomenon of the multiplying Santa Claus-I was secretly hoping against hope that a satisfactory answer might be forthcoming. With appalling indifference, my mother explained that these were men dressed like Santa Claus-not the magic, mysterious Santa of my imagination, but merely ordinary men disguised like him. Ignorant of how her words were cutting me, she continued to explain that Santa Claus stayed at the North Pole, and that nobody ever saw him. My grief was complete, I didn't care what happened, where we went, what we did. I had lived for days in anticipation of seeing the magic man of my dreams-and now the whole framework of my dream castle had fallen. Strange to say, my castle was rebuilt on a more solid foundation by one of those who had helped tear it down-one of the False Santas. I had been left with him in a large store while my mother went about her shopping. He seemed to sense my unhappiness and began to question me skilfully. Soon I was pouring out to him the whole story of my grief. When I had finished, he thought a while and then gently explained that there is no actual Santa Claus, but that he is merely a symbol for the spirit of Christmas. As he spoke, there was no pain of disillusionmentg rather, the words seemed to lift a great weight from my chest. His explanation was more beautiful than the idea of an actual Santa Claus. I was able to build once more my dream castle, in which dwelt not the former Santa Claus of my imagination, but the new Santa, the symbol of the Christmas spirit. Robert Tcllier. 110